


Shock and Awe - or, How Sally Busted Jim's Chops

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A house fire, Consulting criminals, Drooling Babies, Gen, injured flatmates, murder and infamy, one grievously injured pinkie toe, sweet old ladies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:45:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: Sally has had enough of this freak. It's time to cut short Lestrade's ridiculous pandering. It's up to her, now, to protect London, by apprehending Sherlock in the middle of a crime. Donovan makes a plan, involving slightly illegal firearm, as much surveillance equipment as she can nick from the Yard, and two complete sets of PPE. Whatever depravity the psychopath gets up to, the result is bound to be bloody.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU-ish, after episode 2, season 2, and episode 3.
> 
> And yes, Sally Donovan is homophobic.
> 
> Sorry if I mix up verb tenses. I usually write in past tense.
> 
> Also, all self-talk is done in second person, because that's what I do.
> 
> One more thing. I don't know if the way I had the cabbie speak is typical of any particular British accent. That's how he sounded in my head, so that's how I wrote it down. I wasn't trying for anything in particular. Also, he looks like a woodchuck.

   It is about bloody damn time that someone does something, anything to address this travesty. Apparently, the men of NSY doff their bollocks the minute that they walk into the building. She feels her eyes burning bright, almost painfully. The lot of them, all simple-minded idiots. They probably keep them in a jar by the door, their pathetic insufficient manly bits. And for fuck's sake, who was that for? The sodding psychopath, of course; that nancy-boy, narcissistic twat. He, whose true intentions shall not be named - at least by the head of their division. Anderson, at least, isn't starstruck. Perhaps she can push him into growing a pair, although keeping them may pose a problem. That wife of his has definitely got to go.

              <><><><><><><><><><><><>

     Incident 1: September 29th, 2012

      20:00 hours

      Subject BP (bloody psychopath) seen entering Baker St. station via Marylebone Rd.(station code ZBS) Subject in possession of a mobile phone. No additional paraphernalia noted at this time.

      BP wearing atypical clothing: black jeans (high quality fabric, extremely tight. Noted: subject has plush arse), dark grey knitted jumper, grey Nike trainers, black waist-level leather jacket (collar up in effort to look cool). Side note: what's with the frumpy-arsed jumper? Subject must be wearing disguise.

      21:10

    BP takes westbound train to Hammersmith (postal code W6 8AB), platform #6. Subject has been actively texting from time of first observation until exiting the tube.

    BP walking whilst continuing to text. Subject has so far avoided being hit by on-coming traffic or other pedestrians. Damn. Enters Tesco MEtro via main entrance. Does not acquire a trolley. Subject examines each and every sodding container of milk in the dairy freezer. Behavior recorded as follows: shaking of container, reading sell-buy date, lifting up to light source for...what? Obviously, just one more indicator that subject is completely off his rocker. BP purchases 1 pint container of half-and-half milk, exits building. Officer wonders why subject didn't just open up each bottle for a taste.

    BP, still texting, puts milk in left-side coat pocket. Pockets are larger than first noted. Homicidal maniac plows into elderly woman. What is she doing out so late? She can't be 5' tall, 5 stone? Honestly, people have no common sense. Grandma falls flat on her arse. Hard. Woman shrieks, begins crying. Due to the hour, no other witnesses present.

   This officer begins video surveillance at 22:18.      

 BP pockets phone. Right hand rummages in inner left breast pocket.

_Ok, bastard, I guess it's time to make your move. What else have you got in those pockets? Jack-knife? Box cutter? Piano wire? Syringe? Jesus, Sally. Keep it together._

Acquisition of firearm advisable at this time, and as such video surveillance shut off at 22:28. Subject pulls out a white...handkerchief. Aids Great-Aunt Mildred to her feet, one hand under each armpit. He lifts her as easily as a doll. Subject brushes dirt off victim's coat. This officer aims firearm at target. BP takes three steps to the left and stands directly behind. This officer clicks off the safety. 

   Subject bends down to his haunches, and then stands back up. He returns to face woman bearing a large, brown leather satchel, offers it to victim. Grandma Moses speaks to BP, begins laughing. Laughing. It is obvious to this officer that old hag is severely concussed. BP dabs at woman's cheeks with handkerchief for roughly ten seconds. Victim giggles. Officer debates calling EMT services due to life-threatening injury sustained by victim. Monogram visible on handkerchief, WSSH in blue silk thread. Pink roses observed in circle around monogram. No rational explanation available at this time for said handkerchief.

   Victim attempts to return handkerchief to bloodthirsty maniac. BP shakes head "no", smiles demonstrating unusually straight teeth. Bastard. Subject places his freakishly large paws around her hand, cloth still in her possession, and says "Keep it, please. You need it more than I." 

     _Yeah, to wipe up bodily fluids after being beaten to a bloody pulp with his mobile._

Subject re-obtains victim's satchel and holds out his elbow. Woman takes it, STILL SMILING. BP hails a taxi (arsehole always nabs a bloody taxi), enters taxi with victim 22:34.

     This officer unable to continue active surveillance.

      _BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER_

Officer returns to NSY, contacts cab company with licence plate number, interviews (interrogates) driver 23:55 at his house.

     Per witness statement, digitally recorded testimony: "Yeah, I seen 'im. He were a tall bloke, and a real looker, oi, if you get my meaning." (sound of low, wistful groan). "But anyway, he weren't interested. He's a bit public school, your freak." (sound of loud guffaw) "Well, you said it, not me. The only thing I were interested was in his trousers. As in,  _in_ his...all right, all right, no need to get testy. It's been a long day. So this bloke is all toothy, great big smile framing those cheekbones, collar up. Very cool. In general, being a real gentleman. With the vic, not me. With me, he were a bit snappish.(sound of sniffing). "Can I say vic? It sounds legit, like real police lingo, yeah?" (sound of table scraping across floor, source unknown) "Oi! Fine! I'll just get on with it already. The missus will be worried. Yeah, I gots one, don't gimme that high-and-mighty look. A gent's got needs, and they don't always come with a set of breasts. Especially, when they're flat, saggy ones, with wrinkled... _So._ This guy takes her bag, real old-school, that. He totes it, I mean, don't get excited. He didn't  _nick_ it, 'e were bringing it up for the lady. Must have been genuine ostrich skin, or sumpin' like it, maybe. Good quality. Posh. So, then my lush, lovely lamb chop accompanies her to the door. 'E gallantly holding 'er arm, like she's the Queen. And _then,_ she give 'im a loud buss on the cheek, and a snuggle. I'm all jealous! Your perp...see what I did there? 'ugs her back all soft-like, like she's a soap bubble and he's afraid she might pop if 'e squeezes. After which, the lady shuts the door. He stands there, waiting, I guess, until he hears the door lock and double bolt. Then the looker's back in the cab. Bloke takes a ride back to Baker St. A good tipper, 'e were. Very nice. And that's it. Oh, shite. One last thing. The bloke reaches into his coat pocket, and out comes this little bottle of what looked like milk. It's white. He stands there, looks at his watch, opens it up and sniffs it, makes a face, and then chucks the thing in a bin outside Speedy's. And, heh...here's the fun part, yeah? The real kicker. I'm still sitting there, counting out my night's cash, right? - it being a safe area, and all - and I hear this other bloke, not your baddie, someone else. 'E's hollering, and putting up a right fuss up close to a second-storey window. So loud 'e is, that I catch every word. Bloke must have been in the Navy, with that mouth. So, 'e's steamrolling over your gent, red-faced and stomping about, sayin', "What the fuck, you lazy wanker! You're gone three whole hours doing God knows what, and  _still_  you forget to bring home the milk!'" (sound of loud laughter, followed by a cough). "What a 'oot. I ain't been so chuffed in...it's been ages!"

    Interview terminated. No further investigation pending at this time.

    


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drooling baby, enter stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short. This story is more of an exercise in avoiding writer's block...and also, just for fun. In other words, don't expect Shakespeare (quotes).

    Incident 2, October 3rd, 2012

    15:42

     BP and AGF (ridiculously gullible flatmate) exit the Yard via north exit of NSY. AGF received text at 15:12 in the boss's office, stating that Sarah needed help at the surgery. BP, glaring like the egotistical wanker that he is, proceeded the throw a tantrum. Typical. Only after the boss intervened did BP stop harassing AGF. Subject stated "John. Which is more important. Solving this case or diagnosing piles?" AGF, patsy or not, stood his ground with Lestrade's blessing and left. BP departed soon after. Thank God.

     15:50

    This officer instigates active stakeout. BP in possession of case files nicked from boss's desk whilst exchanging good-byes with AFG.  ~~Lestrade is a brilliant detective, but when it comes to the Freak, he's a few sandwiches short of a picnic.~~  Subject travelling east on Richmond Terrace. Side note: sidewalks in deplorable condition. This officer has stubbed her toes twice. Being a consummate professional, this officer continues pursuit, despite suspecting she's broken left pinkie toe. 

   BP observed crossing Richmond Terrace. Subject enters Whitehall Gardens and sits on park bench. BP observed scanning case files at an impossibly rapid rate of speed. Reason for behavior unknown. It's not possible to read at this pace, so called "genius" or not. 

   Young woman, (victim 1) approximately 25 years, observed walking southbound with toddler in appallingly pink push cart. This officer unable to determine approximate age of toddler, or it's gender, for that matter, as child is currently screaming bloody murder. How fitting. Scanning the immediate area, this officer notes that said infant, AKA wailing banshee has dropped its bottle. Bottle located 25 feet north of victim 1 on walkway pavement. V1 in process of texting, is completely ignoring her brat. Whilst this officer sympathizes, continual observation may be necessary to determine if V1's behavior constitutes gross neglect.

   BP shoves files in coat (must have bloody big inner pockets - will pursue at later time) and steps past V1. Subject picks up bottle, blows on nipple in likely attempt to spread lethal virus. Re-traces steps and speaks to V1. BP presents woman with bottle. Subject  _smiles._ This officer looks for indicators of murderous intent, as this officer is located at some distance and unable to hear conversation. 

   V1 smiles back, nods, and offers child of Satan its bottle. 

_For God's sake, woman, don't turn your back!_

   Toddler accepts bottle and shuts its gob. Further exchange of possible pleasantries observed. V1 proceeds to obvious flirting behavior, sticking out silicone enhanced breasts and satisfying flat arse. Run's fingers through long blonde hair. A bad dye job, that - brown roots showing. In addition, this officer notes filthy trollop has chipped cheap red polish on fingernails. Not surprised.

 ~~Two-timing skank, stop flirting and mind your child before the Four Horsemen appear.~~ ~~~~

This officer suspects that BP is aware of this staff's presence. It is the only logical reason for the Freak's actions. This officer considers wearing disguise during next stake-out.

    BP accepts a small slip of paper covered in blue ink writing from V1. On where tart's been stowing her pen, this officer chooses not to speculate. BP accepts paper, makes great show of placing paper in thick, brown leather wallet. V1 touches BP's right arm, then proceeds travelling south on garden path.

    Bloody Psychopath waits approximately 10 seconds before opening up his wallet and disposing of paper in metal bin with a grimace. BP returns to bench and texts until this officer's left little piggie swells to impossible level. This officer abandons crime scene and seeks medical attention at surgery. This officer, wounded in action, is considering requesting worker's comp.

       

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short internal monologue of Sally's. Honestly, I think that this post is pretty boring and somewhat useless. You'be been warned. On a positive note, it might help cure your chronic insomnia.

  _The bloody toe is sodding well broken. The bastard probably chose that route on purpose. My hard-earned wages are being siphoned by the government, and for what? Lining the sodding nobs' pockets, obviously, because they're certainly not spending it on road maintenance. Tarts with big tits, and £1,200.00 bespoke suits - that's what the Commonweath pays for. Disgusting._

_Bugger all. The stake-outs have been a pointless waste of my break. It's not like I want some poor twonk to be eviscerated by the freak, but still...a quick maiming would perfectly suit my needs. Holmes such is a preternaturally clever sharp-eyed bastard. He's sussed me out. I am sure of it. It's the only logical explanation for that "virtuous citizen" sham._

  _Even so, the whatsit with the milk was just weird._

  _I have to increase the distance in which I operate. Be methodical. Give myself room to manoeuvre, whether or not the mission goes tits up I'm a damn fine officer, not that anyone values my position. All jesting aside, though, the freak's brilliant. A bloody genius. It's why the Yard endures his larking about amidst the blood and guts at a crime scene. For fuck's sake, he's not prancing about through the tulips!_

    _It's bloody sick, it's what it is. How does John Watson tolerate his despicable mockery of the victims, and the loved ones left behind to grieve? Fucking hell, I've got to get back to it, injury or not. It's my duty as an officer - as a decent human being - to get the freak off the streets._

  _It's time to surf eBay for long-distance surveillance tools (and a toe splint)._

  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second soliloquy, you know, because.

    _Integrity, honour, and basic human decency; principles my father swore he'd pass on. No, really. Swear to God, I'm not telling you stories. And bugger, did my Dad lay it on thick to whatever hapless git he cornered. Declan Francis James Donovan did right by his issue, or so he said, neglecting to mention his three by-blows._

  _I applaud my father's intentions, I really do, despite his being a fucking bloody drunk. Too bad for myself and my two sisters. We'd have been free and clear if he'd shrugged off our existence, as well. You see, Dad's thoughts on proper parenting were dead contradictory for his purpose. He was a hateful man, all said, a bloody rubbish male of the species._

  _Yeah, I'll own up, but only when I've had a few drinks. I despised him. I feared him. Though I knew I'd go to Hell, or God forbid, prison; I as a girl I yearned for the courage to top him off. Parents can't thump virtue into a child using hard fists and a belt, whilst screaming how pathetic that child is. Bugger, how many times he swore we were a dead loss, a fucking drain on his hard-earned wages. My father wished we'd been stillborn. He wished we'd never been conceived._

  _It's criminal, the damage he he laid on my sisters. Back then, I was too small and too weak to protect them. I'm not weak now. I'm a bitch with a stick up my arse. Shite, I've witnessed methods of murder that would make your skin crawl. I could do it, I really could, but it's not necessary._

    _Yes, I'm delighted to report that he offed his own arse, off his trolley on some bottom shelf booze. Dear Dad crashed his Mini into an oncoming eighteen-wheel lorry. Be as it may, perhaps through divine providence, the lorry driver sustained nary a scratch. Well, excepting a small lurid purple spot on his right lower cheek. It was his coffee mug that did it, which pitched off the dash like a rocket. Ha! Karma's a bitch, innit, Dad._

_I send my thanks to the closest available deity that he cleared off when I was twelve. His absence gave me the chance that I needed. I had six years to recover before my mum ran me out of the flat. Yeah, I hardly ever speak of my mother in polite conversation. The words that I use might offend you._

    _I so want to be a good person. To be honest, though, I am anything but. This rotten apple didn't clear the tree's shade. I don't show it, but I'm not proud of Anderson. It guts me every bloody time, when the freak digs the point in. I'm an adulterer. He doesn't say the word. He needn't waste the air. The entire squad knows it, that I'm a skank. I wonder why I even bother, in my darker moments. Why try?_

    _I try to be good, but so far, I've been anything but. See, it's why I want to bring Sherlock Holmes down. I want to stick his poncy lunatic arse so deep into our system that he never sees daylight again. Then, and only then, I will have done something good enough to turn myself to rights._


End file.
